


Something Borrowed

by bowblade



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Character Death, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28054872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowblade/pseuds/bowblade
Summary: You either let go of the person you love, or you don't.(Post-destroy.)
Relationships: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian
Kudos: 23





	Something Borrowed

**Author's Note:**

> me: what if i write this cute shakarian thing about garrus seeing shepard in her wedding dress  
> also me: make it sad

The afternoon sun is bright behind his closed eyes and Garrus knows he must have dozed off.

He's pretty sure he can hear birds – confused, noisy birds, singing out of time and also place, like they're right in his ear although he's reasonably certain they're actually outside. Garrus grumbles, groans, stiff from falling asleep against the edge of the bar, squinting with sleep attuned eyes as he tries to make out his immediate surroundings through the sun's glare. Earth's sun is always like this in the afternoons, its cosy warmth inviting him to doze and unceremoniously waking him up sometime later as the angle shifts and hits him square in the face. He probably should have learned by now, really.

A talon curls atop his brow to better shield his gaze as he stretches. About him is all extremely familiar, as it had been before the unplanned nap took him: a strange, extravagant formal sitting room in a far too large country estate with far too many needless rooms with bars and tailor made sofas fit for each of them. But like those sofas the place itself is fitting, really, remote and quiet but also _grand_ , the sort of place you'd want to be to recover after a hard won war where you could afford to doze off whenever you pleased… that and it was the perfect place to get married, particularly when the guest list encompassed the entirety of her crew as well as important officials and dignitaries from multiple organizations and places and species, because the galaxy's saviour deserved that and more.

He wonders where she is.

He doesn't have far to look. As occupied as the manor will be, right now it's empty save for a few, and as soon as Garrus catches the sound of voices out in the hall he follows them, room after room, a ghost in the house with one purpose in mind, to find his bride-to-be.

And he does.

And she's—

She's _radiant_.

The golden light filtering through the window helps, but even without it she'd manage.

She has her back to him, regarding herself and the final fit in the mirror with a look of bemusement and the reflection is all he has, but it's enough. He never understood the human fascination with a floor length white dress for a wedding but now he thinks he gets it. It's so different. So… _undeniable_. So bold. Not about fashion but a statement, telling the galaxy that her heart belonged to him, the dress itself the final precursor to a life together they had fought so hard to have. He's seen her in dresses before of course, well cut dresses snug about her hips and ending at the knee for dates in her cabin and crashing parties on the Citadel, but pardoning the pun, they all paled in comparison to this – to her dressed in white and fabric trailing at her feet, and her hair done up extra fancy with flowers laced in, and honestly he's kind of floored and all he can do is _stare_ , drinking her in.

Somewhere along the road his mouth has popped open and Garrus doesn't care to close it, not even as the regal figure of his soon-wife, his _Shepard_ , finally notices him in the corner of the mirror. She spins on a dime, smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she crosses the distance between them and Garrus straightens, thinking he should at least look a little presentable in comparison to her splendour.

Shepard places a hand on his tux, straightening the crooked flower there.

"You know," she says, her eyes cast downward as she fixes it, "they say it's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding."

He remembers her telling him that. It was why he had been in the bar whilst Vega and Traynor had wrangled everyone else into the more time consuming task of dressing their Commander. As stunning as she looks right know he thinks it wouldn't matter – to him she's never not been a cause of wonder, of inspiration. He followed her to hell with the odds stacked against them, was her solace when the burdens of her choice to fight got too much. For all he'd care he'd have married her in the ruins of London in her N7 armour if she'd asked him too, right then and there.

Not that he isn't glad to have this. She was finished with the flower and was looking at him properly now, smile still wide, and he reaches out to her to brush a stray strand of hair from her eye, falling for her all over again.

"Then it's a good thing human superstition doesn't apply to me," he says softly. He meant it as a joke, but he's too serious, he knows. Less turian bad boy and more sentimental husband. Typical Garrus. He coughs, flustered, own smile playing for purchase as he tries for another angle. "That and luck has always been something we've made for ourselves."

That one lands as intended, and Shepard does laugh then. She kisses him on the cheek, a soft touch that he barely feels, her fingers lingering below his scar and Garrus leans into it, contented.

The galaxy had its hero. And she had chosen him, and right now, he was her axis.

He is the happiest turian on Earth right now – he's probably the _only_ turian on Earth right now. The universe, then. So at peace, so rewarded, getting to spend the rest of his life with the woman he loves. 

Garrus sighs as he takes hold of Shepard's fingers, desperately wishing for it to be real.

His voice is quiet. His heart aches – _breaks_ – but he has to say it.

He can't hide here forever.

"This is a dream, isn't it."

It's not a question, and Shepard doesn't answer. How can she? Dreams are not in the habit of responding. She looks back at him, static and as transient as ever, and Garrus studies her features, as perfect as he remembers her to be, as strong and whole.

But that isn't how he left her.

Even as he watches the scenery flickers and fades, giving way to something else. The house vanishes and the white dress is gone in favour of her armour, and she's buried beneath rubble, her chest heavy as she struggles to breathe, no longer having the defiance to claw her way back out. She's bruised, battered, _bloody_ – dark and red and smeared across her forehead, matted in her hair, and Garrus, knelt at her side, doesn't need to check vitals to know. She's dying.

No. She _died_ here. Without him.

It's hard to look at. Cruel, even. But he rejected the softer release for the brutal reality – the truth.

He's denied it for so long.

Beneath him Shepard stirs, trying once again to move, but failing. Her body may be broken but her eyes have never left him, and he meets her gaze, wondering if she chose truth or something kinder as the will to fight went out.

"It's okay to still want things, Garrus."

He's not sure what she's getting at… what his own subconscious is getting at, he supposes. He looks up, to skies obscured by ashen ruin, this one day that's never truly ended. Perhaps it's a release. Perhaps it's a test. Perhaps it's neither of those things.

Garrus sighs, shaking his head. He looks down, at her, again, and he smiles weakly.

"Well, you know me, Shepard."

He's not going to stop believing in her.

He can't.

There's—

There's no Vakarian without _Shepard_.

Without her, he'll always be looking – looking for her, behind every corner, looking for a way to get her back, so perhaps this dream of his will one day come true.

Shepard chuckles, coughing. She can't possibly know what he's thinking but perhaps she does. She reaches for his hands, and Garrus doesn't deny her. Her voice is distant, but gentle; a promise.

"I love you, Garrus Vakarian."

He smiles back, closing his eyes. It isn't just his imagination. She said that to him, the last thing she ever said to him before she went to save the world. 

He can almost feel it. The sun and its warmth, the birdsong, distant bells and the touch of lace.

And he will never stop fighting for it.

His heart is heavy when he wakes, the weight of her loss so crushingly familiar as dream and memory muddles in his mind. But the unplaced plaque is never far, and he reached for it, holding it close over his heart.

"I love you, too."

She was out there somewhere.

She just had to be.


End file.
